just watching the clouds…

I’m at that odd edge of changing seasons when daydreams of warm summer nights mix with a longing for crisp Autumn days.

Yearnings for the carefree days of my youth have mixed steadily with the memories of college today, all seeming to appear from nowhere. I miss getting ready to go out at 15, wondering what adventures the night would hold, who would appear and play a part, and which moments would forever be forgotten or remembered.

I miss the mixture of thrill and contentment I found walking the halls and courtyards of the old buildings on MSUs campus. I miss being surrounded by genuine curiosity, knowledge, and vibrant youth.

Even the very smells of places from my teenage years and from college have been teasing me today. I spent the last day of a summer bootcamp class at the college gym at lunchtime, and it was so hard to drag myself from it after it was over. I had spent so many fun hours in that gym during my college years. I suppose saying goodbye to that building again brought forth a wistfulness that I hadn’t anticipated.

As I lay here in bed beside my 15 month old and wonder about my own classroom and the beginning of another school year, I couldn’t be further from those old memories. Yet here they are, coming in and going out, keeping me from drifting off into slumber where I’ll awaken to this different season of my life, one in which someday I will probably fondly look back upon wistfully and long to relive for a few more moments.

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda’s sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What’s a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then–
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Posting this poem (and even just coming across it the other day) is so relevant right now. I am turning thirty in less than a year, and the number is already bothering me. I spent a little under $100 the other day on special cleanser and day cream to help even out my skin and supposedly make fine lines disappear. It hasn’t done anything of the sort, and I just blew my money for nothing. A friend pointed out her eye wrinkles a few weeks ago, so when I took a good look in the mirror later, I realized that I’m getting them, too. Yikes. Yet, as the poem points out, I am still in the Spring of my life, so why should I worry over tiny lines and wrinkles. Yes, they will deepen and I will age, but I am still youthful now, so I should enjoy it until it fades away. Besides, everyone thinks I’m younger than I really am, so I should be happy with that. Now that I’m taking good care of myself, maybe I will age gracefully.